


autolatry

by hellalujah



Series: uncommon words - a collection of prompt fills [2]
Category: Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: Crossdressing, Illustrated, M/M, dress port
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 07:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8480785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellalujah/pseuds/hellalujah
Summary: (noun) the worship of one's self.





	

**Author's Note:**

> another tumblr drabble that got a little out of hand 
> 
> enjoy <3

The dress ends up in his suitcase as more of a joke than anything. As much of a joke as it had been sent as, Porter assumes, though with Dillon sometimes it's hard to tell.

It’d been hanging in his closet for over a month and now it’s hanging on the back of his hotel bathroom door, glittering a little mockingly. The note Dillon had sent with it had said something along the lines of ‘ _for your next big event!_ ’ and Porter had decided to leave it alone. He hasn’t mentioned it, hadn’t even acknowledged to Dillon that he’d received it and he’d almost forgotten about it himself but…

Well. It’s Dillon’s birthday and it’s maybe time to bring out the big guns.

The bathwater is starting to go cool when Porter drapes his upper body over the edge of the tub, tilts his head to look at the dress. It’s pretty, somehow almost tasteful even though it was Dillon who’d bought it. Definitely expensive, Porter knows that much. The brand on the tag is one Porter is aware is couture and he’s only barely stopped himself from Googling and seeing how much it must have cost.

Probably too much. Porter smiles.

It's almost sheer, with a sort of floral pattern swirling across it in sequins and glittering beads. The sleeves are long and the neck seems to be wider than average and Porter thinks once it's on it'll fall about mid-thigh.

He rests his chin on his arm and wonders distantly when he decided he was actually going to wear it. Maybe, just _maybe_ it was when he went to the drugstore to pick up everything else he thought he might need. He rolls his eyes at himself and reaches down into the plastic CVS bag on the floor.

The razors he’d picked were the most expensive he could find. Pink, marketed for women he guesses but they were the priciest ones in the aisle. He turns one over in his fingers and then sets it back down carefully, reaches back down to grab the shaving cream he’d picked up - also pink, also shockingly expensive - and squints at it for a moment before he tentatively squirts some into his palm.

It foams up tidily in his hand and it smells nice, like strawberries and vanilla or something. He looks at it doubtfully for a second before getting his leg up on the edge of the tub and smoothing the foam down his shin.

Porter picks up the razor again, looks at it about as doubtfully as he’d looked at the shaving cream before popping off the blade guard and carefully running it up his leg.

He doesn’t nick himself but once he reaches his knee he jerks the razor away as if he had. Bites his lip and leans in to run one fingertip down the strip of bare skin left behind.

It’s so _smooth_.

Somehow he’d expected that he would have to shave a couple of times to get everything but he seems to have caught it all on the first pass and he swallows heavily before he swishes the end of the razor around in the water and brings it back up for another swipe.

It takes less time than he thought it would. He almost stops at the knee but he glances up at the dress again and purses his lips before he lifts his leg higher and starts to shave his thighs as well.

Porter sets the razor aside and pops the plug out of the drain before heaving himself up to sit on the edge of the tub. He watches the water swirl down the drain, waits until the whole bath is empty before he looks over his shoulder to look at himself in the mirror. His hair is curling behind his ears, down around his neck.

He tears his eyes away and stands, wraps himself in one of the fluffy hotel towels. It feels strange when he runs it over his legs, foreign and rough against bare, oversensitive skin. It feels strange but maybe Porter likes it, just a bit.

He takes his time drying himself, curling his toes in the bath mat and then wrapping the towel around his hips when he’s done.

He turns and blinks uncertainly at the other gift Dillon had sent.

They’re hanging over the back of the chair tucked into the vanity table - the bathroom actually has a _vanity table_ , complete with soft, spherical lights all around the mirror - and he’s been avoiding looking at them even more than he’s been avoiding the dress.

Dillon had sent Porter the panties on his birthday, another joke gift to go along with his real present. And they, like the dress, turned out to be surprisingly tasteful. They’re green cotton with black lace around the edges and Porter hasn’t touched them since he’d received them but he’d thrown them in his suitcase as an afterthought anyway.

Maybe he’s already feeling brave when he picks them up. Maybe it’s the shaved legs, the residual adrenaline - and it’s ridiculous that it was an adrenaline rush at all but it _was_ \- from buying the razors.

He drops the towel on the floor and pushes it to the side with one foot and holds them out in front of him for a moment. Hesitates. Then steps into them delicately.

They're comfortable, though he didn't expect them to be. The lace sits snug around his hips, dark against the pale expanse of his pelvis. He turns to look and startles himself when he laughs out loud. He likes them, he realizes. They look _good_ on him and he _likes_ them.

Porter sucks in a breath and turns to the dress. Still sparkling faintly in the warm light of the bathroom. It's less intimidating now. He feels less apprehensive and he takes another surreptitious glance at himself in the mirror before he reaches for it.

It’s light when he pulls it carefully off the hanger, holds it out in front of himself like he’d done with the underwear. It really is beautiful, dark sheer fabric that shimmers a bit when it moves. He takes another steadying breath and unzips it, then tugs it on over his head.

It fits perfectly, settles just above the middle of his thigh and it feels so _strange_ , the fabric against his bare skin. He runs a hand up his leg again, almost absently, and turns to look at himself in the mirror.

Porter has to bite his lip to keep his jaw from dropping.

He looks _good_.

It’s the perfect shape for him, hanging loose along his waist and hips and the neckline shows off his collarbones, the arch of his shoulders. He’s almost surprised that it actually _fits_ his shoulders but it does and it looks - _he_ looks lovely.

For a fleeting moment he wishes he had shoes to go along with it - some kind of heels, maybe a boot - and he shakes himself. Does a little turn to make the dress flare out a bit. He tilts his head and smiles at himself.

He looks really, _really_ good.

It’s not as difficult as he expects to reach around and zip the dress up in the back and if he thought it’d looked good before it looks amazing now. Porter wonders hazily how Dillon knew exactly what size and cut to buy for him and then decides not to question it.

His phone dings where it’s sitting on the dressing table and he nearly jumps out of his skin. It’s a text from Dillon, telling him he’s in the lobby and on his way up.

Porter bites his lip again and smiles. He doesn’t bother responding, just dips to reach into the CVS bag again.

The lip gloss was a last minute addition, something he’d grabbed as he was paying, but when he slicks it on it somehow pulls everything together. It’s soft pink, mostly clear but his lips glisten and he hesitates for a moment before blowing his reflection a kiss.

He _giggles_. He can’t even deny that the sound he makes is a giggle.

There’s a knock at the door and Porter doesn’t jump this time, just takes a breath and steps out into the hall. He takes a second to run his hands down the dress, down his thighs again - so _smooth_ \- before he opens the door, just a bit.

Dillon’s standing there, already grinning. “Hello!”

“Hi,” Porter mumbles, peering out the crack in the door. “You can come in but you can’t laugh or I’m kicking you out.”

Dillon snorts. “What did you _do_?”

Porter pauses, stares consideringly up into Dillon's face for a moment. When he takes a slow breath through his nose he's distantly aware that he still smells like strawberries and somehow that gives him a burst of courage.

He opens the door.

Dillon's expression shifts immediately into something awed and wanting and Porter surprises himself by straightening a bit instead of ducking his head.

“Wow,” breathes Dillon. “ _W_ _ow_.”

Porter looks up at Dillon through his lashes, wishes fleetingly that he'd done more makeup but with the way Dillon is looking at him he thinks maybe he's gotten something right.

“You approve?” Porter says, stepping back a bit to gesture Dillon into the room. He doesn't move for a moment, just keeps staring. Dragging his eyes up and down Porter's body and then he’s nodding jerkily.

Porter reaches out to pull Dillon in by the shirt and Dillon steps into the hotel room and closes the door behind him carefully. A pair of warm hands come up to rest on Porter’s waist, smooth down to his hips.

“You look incredible,” Dillon says hoarsely, and Porter _does_ duck his head this time. Dillon’s not joking around. Porter doesn't know if he's ever seen Dillon this serious.

Porter knows he looks good. It feels good to have it acknowledged.

“I’m glad you like,” Porter murmurs, slipping his arms around Dillon’s neck. “I thought you might.”

Dillon’s hands tense briefly where they’re still resting on Porter’s hips and then Porter’s being tugged in a bit closer. “You look amazing,” Dillon says, leaning in to nose at Porter’s cheek and Porter tightens his arms around Dillon. “You _smell_ amazing, Jesus _Christ_ , Porter.”

Porter shivers a little at the movement of Dillon’s lips against his skin but he manages a laugh, manages to press his cheek to Dillon’s. “Thanks for the dress,” Porter says softly, right in Dillon’s ear. “And the other thing.”

Dillon jerks away to stare wide-eyed into Porter’s face. “No way. No _way_.”

Porter grins and Dillon groans, then starts herding Porter toward the bed. The backs of his legs hit the mattress and Dillon stops short, gaze landing on Porter's mouth.

“Jesus, are you wearing _lip gloss_?”

Porter shrugs and purses his lips, makes a kissing noise and Dillon groans again.

“Someone up there must really like me,” Dillon mutters as Porter sits down on the bed. He’s stripping off his t-shirt and he goes to lean in, hands coming up to reach for Porter’s face, but Porter lifts one leg and presses his foot against Dillon’s stomach to stop him.

“Feel,” Porter says lowly. He can't stop smiling.

Dillon’s hand shakes visibly when he reaches up to cup Porter’s calf. “You _didn’t_ ,” Dillon whispers, awed.

Porter grins even wider. “I did.”

Dillon’s hand slides up Porter’s leg, fingers dipping into the bend of his knee before drifting the rest of the way up Porter’s thigh.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dillon whispers with what Porter can only describe as _awe_.

“Happy birthday,” Porter says, then reaches up to pull Dillon down for a kiss.

 


End file.
